


To seek a Great Perhaps

by neverending_moomin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's not that dark I promise, Mild torture, My First Fanfic, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_moomin/pseuds/neverending_moomin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now, sat in the flat looking at the gun in his hands, feeling it jeer at him, his fingers itch. To feel the release as the bullet tore into him. Would he feel the pain? Or would it be too quick? Hovering between life and death was Sherlock’s favourite place, and yet he despised it. His fingers curl against the cold metal and he feels his grip tighten on the trigger. Any second now he would give in to temptation, and all that would be left was brain matter splattered up the walls.</p>
<p>Basically Sherlock has an obsession with his own death/wants to die but not really. It's really not as dark as it sounds, honestly. There are references to Suicide, not just Reichenbach, so if that's a trigger maybe don't read this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Guys,  
> This is my first (published/complete) fic so please be nice. It is all written and I should be able to post regularly which is always good. Feedback is welcomed, and nothing is Beta'd so all mistakes are my own.  
> Hope you all enjoy.  
> Moomin xx

John Watson is undeniably Sherlock Holmes’ best friend. The fact he is his only friend doesn’t diminish that. When John limped into his life Sherlock was ... confused. The man didn’t leave him like so many others did, didn’t mind that Sherlock had a thing for danger. John Watson is, to Sherlock, the best human being ever. But he has a gun. And a gun is bad; Sherlock can’t trust himself not to give in. Blades were old hat; he’d been messing around with swords since he was Eight and convinced he’d become a Pirate (or so Mycroft told him). He can resist their temptation. But a gun, a gun is new and different, and tantalising. Sherlock practically salivates when John uses it, watches those well practised hands handle it. He steals it and points it at Moriarty, fingers twitching. And when the mad man leaves he satisfies the ache in him, leaving the safety off as he gestures, as he uses it to scratch the back of his head. It’s not enough. He uses it to ‘call the Police’ on the Irene case, backhands the CIA operatives with it, feels the weight of it. But he never lets himself be alone with it again. ‘Never let it get to you Sherlock. Not again.’ He’d come so close before, when the boredom threatened to take over. Really he was lucky that Moriarty had chosen to play – to blow up the building across from him – get his mind off that infuriating gun. Still, Sherlock wouldn't trade John in just to be rid of it. He needs them both too much for that. John is the ultimate distraction, Sherlock has his experiments and the Work, but most importantly he has John. And that makes all the difference.

  
* * * * *

John didn’t understand, no-one did, not even Mycroft for all his reassurances. None of them knew. And now, sat in the flat looking at the gun in his hands, feeling it jeer at him, his fingers itch. To feel the release as the bullet tore into him. Would he feel the pain? Or would it be too quick? Hovering between life and death was Sherlock’s favourite place, and yet he despised it. His fingers curl against the cold metal and he feels his grip tighten on the trigger. Any second now he would give in to temptation, and all that would be left was brain matter splattered up the walls. But no, he couldn’t destroy his brain; it was the only good thing about him; his engine. His muscles tense and abruptly he turns the gun, letting its bullets rip harmlessly into the wall instead. Each gunshot echoing in his ears, leaving him hollow, empty. As so very, very “BORED” the word rips out of him.  
Footsteps on the stairs. John. Relief. Don’t let him see.  
“What the HELL are you doing?” John is angry, good, he won’t notice. Never does. They see but they don’t observe.  
“Bored.” It’s muttered, then shouted louder. Stand up, more shots. Don’t let it turn on you, Sherlock. Think about John. Play the part, boredom, after all its true, that’s why you’re sitting in the flat contemplating your own death.  
Sherlock’s brain is racing out of control now; the need to know building. John’s hands pry the gun from his fingers, clicking the safety on audibly, and Sherlock nearly sags with relief. It sweeps through him.  
His brain scrambles for an excuse.  
“Don’t know what’s got into the Criminal classes.” He pauses inspecting the holes in the wall, the peeling wallpaper – Mrs Hudson would kill him. The thought sends a thrill of pleasure down his spine; it’s quickly replaced by fear. “Good Job I’m not one of them.” He flops down on the sofa, tugging the dressing gown round him. John would provide a distraction, he always did. They converse, and he says the wrong thing, always the wrong thing and John is storming out and he’s acting indifferent but inside he’s screaming.  
  
‘Can’t you see? How close I am to this John. DO something! Make it stop.’  
  
Mrs Hudson on the stairs, Sherlock gets up to watch John leave, peering through the curtains he wonders what it’d be like to hang himself. Perhaps he should give it a go. Teach John a lesson. He turns, contemplating which of his collection of rope would be best. And then the windows explode, and he’s forced to the ground, ears ringing, head aching. Sherlock feels then, the tantalising grip of death as it nears. And he’s scared. Because Sherlock Holmes has a secret; He wants to die, but he’s scared of being dead. Of the nothingness that will come next. He passes out, his last thought before the blackness is horribly sentimental, he disgusts himself with it; ‘I hope Mrs Hudson’s okay.’  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what d'you think? More coming soon.  
> Moomin xx


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Whoop!

The closest Sherlock Holmes has ever got to dying is the Cocaine, the feel of it rushing through his veins, the High. It didn’t compare to the real reason Sherlock Holmes shot up, that the more he did, the closer death was, and the closer death was the more he felt alive, free of the worldly constraints. And Mycroft was always there to save him, to stop him going too far. The Crash was the worst, and each time he could barely wait to shoot up again, but this time he needed more, and more, until the point he overdosed, and he actually brushed death, felt the choking all-consuming thrill. He woke up in a hospital room, his limbs heavy and physical cravings gone. Induced coma to try and get him off the drugs, to take away the addiction. But Mycroft didn’t realise the craving wasn’t physical (okay so part of it was) it was psychological. Sherlock Holmes had been technically dead 4 times – the longest of which was 3 minutes. Each time he woke there was a crushing relief that he was still here, that he wouldn’t have to endure the nothingness of being dead, and each time he hissed and swore at his brother, playing the part. Rehab, again and again and again. Sherlock scoffed, like rehab would help him. He wasn’t a junky, addicted to the substance. He was addicted to death. The real reason he stopped the drugs was the car.

 

“Sherlock, I’m cutting you off.” Mycroft’s voice is cold, but under that he’s tense, resigned, frustrated. Sherlock doesn’t see this; he’s too busy being mad.

“No.” He sways on his feet ever so slightly, Mycroft interrupted him mid-cocaine, there’s not enough in his system to be fun, just to make him slightly wobbly. He detests it. “It’s my life I won’t have you ruin it. That’s my money. Stick your big, fat nose in someone else’s business for a change.” He stumbles.

“ _I’m_ not the one ruining your life Sherlock. You are. And you’re too blind to see it.” Mycroft hisses. “I’ve tried, Sherlock, I’m sick of trying. So no. From this moment onwards you are cut off from all your income, your trust, the estate. Everything. I’m sending you to Switzerland for three weeks – to stay at the cottage and **get a grip**.” If Sherlock had been functioning properly he would have observed the sadness, the tiredness in Mycroft then, but he wasn’t instead he recoils; the Swiss cottage was where Mummy had gone. Where father had sent her year after year when she had one of her episodes. A nice name for an establishment funded in Holmes money. An establishment which would break him and try to rebuild him as something new. Sherlock had been there once – escaped the nanny and booked himself the jet over there, running from his father, Mycroft, life, to his mother’s warm embrace and kind words – and it had broken him. The cottage was remote, buried in a hillside covered in snow. The trek alone had almost cost him his life, and when he arrived, well the quaint thatch roof and curling smoke had fooled him. An institution hidden in niceties. In a skin of kindness and help lay a threat larger than even his father. Sherlock had run and never looked back. He wasn’t going there again. Not now. He pushed past Mycroft, down the stairs and into the nearest car. Jumpstarted it and fled. He rolled the car, tipping over and over. Lying there, suspended by the seatbelt and stuck, left arm broken and blood trickling down his face, as the darkness closed in and the pain took over. There and then Sherlock vowed never to take drugs again. Ever.

Mycroft didn’t make him go to the cottage. Mycroft yelled. Cut him off. Sent him to another rehab. But he didn’t send him to the cottage. He’d seen the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the fear, and then later, the truth as he promised to stay off the Drugs. Mycroft shut down the cottage. Sherlock didn’t need it, **not again.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duh! I know it's short, and slightly off track, but it provides context which is important.  
> Moomin xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this makes up for the shortness of the last chapter, and the fact it didn't make much sense. This picks up where chapter 1 left off. Enjoy. xx

When Sherlock comes to the world is sideways, and he staggers to his feet and down the stairs, white powdered dust from the walls coating him.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson cries bustling out from her flat. Only lost a couple of minutes then, wasn’t unconscious for long. “Oh my poor boy, what have you done this time? If you blew up my flat again I’ll have you, it’s going on your rent young man.” From worried to scolding in moments, Sherlock can’t help but smile. Mrs H is okay. His head rings, but knowing Mycroft will likely be over soon he straightens his jacket and runs a hand through his hair, shaking loose the white powder.

“All’s well Mrs Hudson, an explosion across the street, windows were blown out. Mycroft will pay the damages. Now why don’t you take your herbal soothers and have a cuppa? Hmm.” He reassures the woman, inside buzzing with excitement. The landlady nods, patting his cheek fondly and turning away into her flat.

“I do hope no one was hurt. Nasty business explosions. Let John know we’re okay love won’t you.” And then the door closes behind her and Sherlock can let loose the laugh that has been threatening to take over. He almost died, how great was that!

He bounds up the stairs with more energy than he’s had in days, crossing the living room to peer out what was once a window, now with all the glass knocked out and cutting Sherlock’s feet, it’s just a gaping hole, ready for the tall man to fall out of should he lean too far. His smile is tempered as he views the smoking wreckage that is the house across the way, and John’s voice in his head adds a small ‘bit not good’ when he thinks on the fact that people may have just actually died. He doubts they were as excited as he was at the prospect. A buzzing in his pocket breaks the cycle of thoughts in Sherlock’s head, and he pulls his slightly battered phone from his pocket. Mycroft. Mycroft texting. Interesting, that meant he wouldn’t be coming over, too much else on. Thanks a lot for your brotherly concern Mycroft. Sherlock thinks, then opens the message and is forced to reconsider his previous thoughts.

_ARE YOU ALLRIGHT? MH_

The spelling mistake speaks louder than the capitols – Mycroft was worried about him. His phone beeps again, a new text being added to the message stack.

_Disregard that. MH_

Sherlock snorts.

_You’re fine I’m sure. Did you plant it? MH_

_Don’t snort it’s unbecoming. MH_

Sherlock’s head whips round to survey the flat, hissing through his teeth, he’d been positive he’d got all the cameras.

_I don’t have surveillance in the flat Sherlock, I just know you. MH_

_Clean up crew will arrive in 6 minutes, emergency services 14 make yourself presentable. And for god’s sake tell John you’re okay. MH_

Sherlock huffs, discarding the phone on the coffee table and deliberately ignoring the last statement, the only act of rebellion he can give in present circumstances, he really does need a shower after all. His feet have begun to sting from all the glass scratching at them, and on closer inspection he may have even bruised a rib. Yep tender. With a sigh Sherlock gets under the shower spray, allowing himself two and a half minutes to shower before forcing himself out and into the bedroom to wrap a sheet round his damp body. If he’s covering everything up then he’s presentable isn’t he? Stepping out of the bedroom Sherlock’s phone buzzes on the table and he scoops it up before flinging it away in disgust and going to change.

_Not the sheet. Or I’ll tell Mummy. MH_

Low blow Mycroft. If he told Mummy her youngest had almost been blown up it would be visits and cakes and fussing for at least a week, if not more, regardless of the fact that Sherlock was absolutely fine. Sherlock shudders at the thought and re-emerges fully dressed in an immaculate three piece just as the first of Mycroft’s clean-up crew arrive. He scowls at them.

“Tell Mycroft to piss off.” He tells them grumpily sitting down in John’s chair and folding himself up in a strop. Across the room his phone display lights up. “And you expect me to believe you’ve not got surveillance in the flat.” Sherlock responds aloud, not bothering to pick up the offensive item. The display lights up again, and one of the minions passes it to the grumpy detective.

_Don’t be rude. I can always tell them to leave without clearing up for you. MH_

_You see but you don’t observe. MH_

Sherlock glances up from the screen and observes. The minions have camera’s and audio devices on them, they are the Secret Service or MI5/6 or something he supposes, but still.

_Like to spy on your workers brother mine? How very George Orwell 1984. SH_

_So_ _you did retain year 11 English. How interesting. MH_

_No Sherlock, I like to spy on you. Knowing that four of them had crumpets for lunch couldn’t be more dull to me. MH_

_Three. SH_

_Very good. MH_

Sherlock blinks at the screen. Praise. From Mycroft. Not knowing how to respond Sherlock taps out a jab instead, much more comfortable with sibling rivalry than praise.

_7 minutes 26 seconds. SH_

_Uzbekistan? SH_

_I’ll see you in the morning. MH_

_Don’t trouble yourself on my account. SH_

_I’ll see you in the morning. MH_

Unsettled Sherlock shoves the phone in his pocket and uncurls himself from John’s chair. Mycroft hadn’t risen to the bait – his people had been 1 min 26 seconds slower than Mycroft had said they would be. Texting not calling + time difference = foreign soil. Normally that would be enough to get under the elder Holmes’ skin, or at least get a response out of him. ‘I’ll see you in the morning’ didn’t count. Something was troubling Mycroft, and Sherlock was going to find out what.

* * * * *

The cause of Mycroft’s unease becomes apparent over the next few days, when Sherlock goes from bored out his mind to solving the puzzles of the one and only consulting Criminal. Neat really, how everything tied together. Moriarty was finally coming out to play. After that teaser with the cabbie Sherlock had practically salivated at the prospect of meeting his match, meeting this man who instilled fear into all the ordinary people. Admittedly he’d bested Sherlock, made him fear, not for the safety of his own life, but for John’s, something the detective hadn’t quite come to terms with. This fear for John, this want to protect the blond in his unassuming jumpers and fierce loyalty. He shook aside the feelings stirring in his chest at the thought of John dying, John dying to protect him. Instead focusing on the rush, the thrill to come up against such genius, such madness that was Moriarty. Fear wasn’t going to get him anywhere.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter for quite a bit, and I'm still not sure I like it, but the idea wouldn't go away, and after this we get into the main plot. So, let me know what you think (especially about the second half, is it too disjointed?) and hopefully, it's not as bad as I think.  
> All my love  
> Moomin xx

Sherlock scrutinises the man in front of him, trying to calculate every possible outcome of this situation, every place that the thick 6-inch blade could land itself in his flesh. He is not afraid. The thug’s haggard breathing is the only sound bar the muted murmur of London, and Sherlock allows the man a moment to catch his breath, if only so that he stood a better chance of landing the blade somewhere it could do some damage. He is excited. One step forward and the thug is moving into action as retaliation, swinging meaty fists this way and that and trying to land a blow. Sherlock dodges and parries, keeping up the game and injecting more thrill per second. Disappointingly the man does not see the opportunity Sherlock has given him, and his unguarded flank is left unmarred by the glinting blade. With a sigh Sherlock disarms him, and locks the man in a choke hold until he passes out, then drops him unceremoniously on the floor.

It is at that moment a panting John Watson rounds the corner, and Sherlock considers the fact that even if the brute had landed a blow then John would have patched him up before anything truly exciting could have happened. So really, the wasted opportunity was for the best; Sherlock hated how John restricted him the moment he was injured almost as much as he hated being injured – if he wasn’t going to die then it was all pointlessly boring.

“Sherlock. Thank god.” John exhales, clapping the detective on the shoulder. “Next time wait for me yeah?” Sherlock rolls his eyes and John ignores him, moving to crouch beside the unconscious thug and checking his vitals before kicking the weapon out of reach, should the man wake. “Call Lestrade won’t you, I need to sit down a mo." Sherlock huffs at the order but relents as his blogger collapses onto the floor, chest heaving and eyes drooping. When was the last time John slept? Or ate? Hmmm. Distracted Sherlock barks the address into his phone and hangs up on Lestrade before the man could reply, phoning in their usual Thai order after a quick calculation. Starvation probably wasn’t the best way to die, he figures, and he certainly would rather John didn’t starve – it makes him terrible tetchy.

“Come here and let me look at you Sherlock.”

“Hmmm? Oh, I’m fine.”

John levels him a look and Sherlock steps over and sits next to his friend. John begins his preliminary search of Sherlock’s face, then moves down to lightly press his hands to Sherlock’s ribs. “I told you John, he didn’t get me properly, a couple of bruises is all.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get stabbed Sherlock, so sit there and let me make sure okay? I wouldn’t put it past you to get so caught up you didn’t even realise you’d been hit.” Is John’s reply, and Sherlock mentally scoffs. ‘Lucky’ yeah right, he doesn’t reply though, too distracted by John’s hands gently probing his sides for injury.

Lestrade takes ten minutes to show up, and grouses at them for knocking the man out. “I just caught you a murderer Lestrade, one would have thought you’d be more grateful. He’ll wake up, besides, he tried to stab me, what was I supposed to do?”

“Tell me before you go chasing down murderers Sherlock! Honestly, the paperwork I would have had to fill out if you’d been stabbed. If you actually let me know what you were doing half the time, I’d be able to arrest the buggers while they’re still conscious. How am I supposed to read him his rights, eh!?”

“Oh do get over it Lestrade, John and I are going home. Call me if you get another interesting case.” And with that, the detective sweeps out, John trotting tiredly after him.  The cab ride is quiet, and they arrive back at the flat just as Mrs Hudson closes the door after the delivery man.

“Oh, boys, this is for you then I take it. Did you catch them then? The murderer? Nasty business. I’m just off to bed, night.” The landlady monologues, leaving them to a well-deserved meal before collapsing in bed themselves. For some reason, as Sherlock lies in bed drifting to sleep for the first time in four days he does not lament over a failed opportunity to die, rather an image of John, smiling at him over dinner worms its way into his head and won’t leave. ‘If I’d died, I wouldn’t have got to see John smile at me like that’ he muses, before slipping away into oblivion.

* * * * *

Sherlock trudges into the kitchen wrapped only in his sheet, hair still mussed from sleep. John smiles at the sight and hands him mug of tea and a plate of toast. Sherlock glares disdainfully at it, reciting the poisons that could be effectively hidden in the simple food. But John wouldn’t do that to him, would he? With a frustrated sigh, he thrusts the plate back at his flatmate.

“I ate last night.”

“Which is the first thing you’ve eaten in four days. A bit of toast won’t hurt you will it? And if you eat it I’ll not ask you to eat for the rest of today, how’s that?” John bargains. Sherlock contemplates the deal and then refuses anyway, he’s not going to eat later anyway, and while it would be nicer to not have John bug him about it, the prospect of eating toast rolls his stomach. “Sherlock.” John sighs, looking so dejected that Sherlock puts the plate down and reaches for an apple, nibbling on that instead, just to appease the blond. John frowns but picks up the toast and adds it to his own plate, sipping idly at his tea and settling in to read the paper. The detective eats half of the fruit before abandoning it, and the pair settle into the routine of Baker St without a case.

It is the second explosion in three minutes that has John yelling about not using noxious chemicals in the kitchen.

“Jesus, Sherlock you’re not even wearing protective equipment you could have killed yourself!” John exclaims, which was precisely the point, but Sherlock thinks better of telling John so.  The blond ruins Sherlock’s experiment further, by dousing everything on the table, and Sherlock himself, in the foam from 221b’s fire extinguisher (which John had bought after Sherlock set the curtains on fire three weeks ago). Sherlock scowls at his flatmate from beneath a layer of foam, and shoves back from the table to crowd into John’s space.

“Well done, John, you have spectacularly ruined an experiment months in the making.” He snarls, suddenly furious – was John going to consistently ruin all the fun he had?

“Well excuse me for being worried about safety, it seems I'm the only one. Noxious gasses are not to be used in the flat! I don’t mind, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, finding body parts in the fridge or you experimenting on decomposing tissue. But the one thing I will not stand for is you trying to blow us up! Which doesn’t seem too unreasonable to me.” John replies evenly. Sherlock huffs

“John, you complain no matter what I do. I hardly think creating a small chemical reaction is equal to trying to blow us up.”

“Small – Sherlock, you singed your eyebrows, there’s green gunk on the ceiling and you spilt my tea – which was in the living room! Small doesn’t begin to cover it.” John dares the detective to contradict him, feeling an unnatural panic when faced with the possibility that Sherlock could have just killed himself in their kitchen because he was bored and safety was ‘dull’. After a moments silence Sherlock storms into the bathroom to shower, leaving a slightly shell-shocked John to stare at the mess in the kitchen. With a sigh he phones Mycroft – Sherlock wasn’t exactly going to clear it up, and John hadn’t the vaguest sense where to start, or how to handle the various substances. That done he sets about opening the windows, trying to ventilate.

In the bathroom, Sherlock is fuming. How dare John tell him what he could and couldn’t do, it was bad enough the man forced him to eat, without putting restrictions on his experiments. A small part of him recognises that John did have a point, and that the chemical reaction could have produced harmful gasses, potentially fatal to John, and not just Sherlock. And Sherlock did not want John dead. But the larger, angrier part just wants to rant about how everyone was restricting him. Stepping out into the living room in clean clothes just to discover Mycroft’s people crawling all over the place, and the smug man himself sat on the sofa is the last straw. The consulting detective sweeps out of the flat, slamming the door so hard behind him that the building shakes a little at the reverberations. Dashing across the road without looking, and being the cause of several car horns blaring gave him little satisfaction as he hails a cab to Barts.

Watching the scene unfold from the window in 221B Mycroft sighs softly. “My Brother, does love to be dramatic, Dr Watson.”

John purses his lips in frustration, and takes a sip from his freshly brewed cup of tea. His reply hit’s just a little too close to the truth, not that either of them realise it. “The way he carries on; running headlong into danger, blatant disregard to safety, anyone would think he’s _trying_ to get himself killed.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a long one, because I couldn't find a good place to split it (and I didn't really want to anyway).  
> Anyway, enjoy.  
> M xx

Sherlock wobbles slightly, but regains his balance, placing his left foot in front of his right on the red brick of the wall. Turning to face the view he smiles, extending long arms out to the side and leaning forward ever so slightly in the breeze. The ground drops sharply away at the base of the wall, tumbling down in a rock slope and crashing against the waves below. Sherlock leans further forward, stopping just before gravity will take him the twelve-year old feels the familiar rush of adrenaline. He’s balanced on a knife edge, a hairs breadth away from plummeting to his death, and it’s exhilarating.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, get down this instant.” Mycroft’s voice shatters the spell, and he pitches forward, losing his balance. Fear shoots down his spine, and his arms pinwheel. Strong arms grip the child round the middle, stopping his fall, and pulling him backwards to safety. He gasps in air as he is set down on the safety of the grass, looking up at his brother.

“Mycroft” he greets coolly through his hammering heart. The nineteen-year old frowns down on him, concern flickering across his face.

“Matilda has been looking for you for an hour, she’s practically frantic, go see her before she fetches father.”

Sherlock screws his face up at the mention of the nannie, but is grateful his brother chose not to mention the wall. He debates arguing – really if the woman can’t keep track of him its hardly his fault, the sun was shining for once, and the garden presented so much more data than being cooped up in the house – in the end though he dutifully trails after Mycroft, shooting glances back at the 6 foot wall he’d been perched on moments before. There will be other opportunities to walk that tightrope. The wall stretches round the Garden, enclosing it and keeping them safe from the sharp rocks and water below the summer house. Sherlock had been about to walk the entire perimeter, he’d stopped only momentarily to enjoy the closeness with death and now all was ruined. He’d have to wait till tomorrow. They reach the house at last, it’s looming façade cast in afternoon shadow seemingly haunting and Sherlock shivers despite the warmth cloaking the summer air – unusual for England really. He glances over his shoulder one last time before they cross the threshold and the building swallows the brothers. Mycroft, as if sensing his thoughts – or more likely deducing – sighs quietly, then sharply states,

“No more climbing the wall, Father won’t like it.” And for some reason, twelve-year old Sherlock obeys, trudging through the house to find Matilda and partake in his summer lessons. He doesn’t so much as look at the wall for the rest of the holidays. He never forgets the feeling though, standing with his bare feet gripping the warm brick, the wind rustling his curls and the salty ocean tang in his nostrils. He holds on to the sensation of leaning into that breeze, of feeling the moment gravity took hold and he was nanoseconds away from falling down, down into the cold embrace of death.

 

 

Sherlock jerks out of the memory with a frustrated sigh. His earliest memory is being twelve years old stood on the wall at the old Holmes’ summer mansion. It’s stupid, a mind as great as his should be able to remember the time before he was twelve, and yet, no matter how hard he pushes, how long he spends wandering the halls of his mind palace, he can’t breach the barrier. And why was he so willing to obey Mycroft, not upset his father. Sherlock has always pushed the limits of his parent’s patience, listening to no-one, Mycroft forever lords it over him – the troublesome child. He growls in frustration and a startled John sets down the mug of tea slightly too hard, sloshing the contents over the side.

“Sorry, thought you might want a cuppa.” The blond says. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.” Sherlock frowns at the other man, confused, John honestly thought that he’d disturbed him, worried over that.

“You didn’t.” The detective replies coolly, sweeping to his feet and placing the dark wood of his violin under his chin. He plucks the strings distractedly, before raising the bow and drawing it slowly across the instrument. A melancholy note echoes through the flat.

“Oh.” John replies eyes fixed on the detective, silhouetted against the window. “Right. Well if you need me, I’m – well I’m going to be … here. Thought I’d update the blog.” Sherlock hums acknowledgement without looking at the shorter man, already miles away, the pull of his bow against the strings ringing out softly, permeating the air with a haunting tune.

 

“Don’t forget your tea.” John’s voice shatters through the music, and pulls Sherlock out of his mood. John’s standing halfway to the kitchen, mug in one hand and a paperback in the other. A look of surprise flits across his features. “Didn’t think you’d hear me so lost on thought.” He says with a lopsided grin. “But I didn’t make it so it can sit and go cold while you think yourself to death.” Sherlock startles, but the shorter man’s already turned, pacing into the kitchen. “I was thinking of ordering Chinese, unless you fancy Thai.” He hollers, and Sherlock acknowledges that early afternoon has swiftly become evening in the time he’s spent playing, long enough that his tea is probably already cold and congealing. He knocks it back anyway, entering the kitchen to hand the mug to his friend.

“Let’s go to Angelo’s.” He says impulsively, wanting to get out of the flat. John lights up, and something stirs within Sherlock’s chest, he pushes it away. John nods, and brushes past the taller man, reaching for his shoes and coat. Sherlock too turns and shrugs into his Belstaff, eyes raking over his shorter flatmate curiously.

“Why don’t we walk.” The blond says, as Sherlock raises an arm to hail a cab. He blinks at his companion but acquiesces, dropping his hand back to his side and striding off. For some reason he can’t bring himself to talk, to break himself out of this lethargy which has gripped him all day. As per usual John breaks the silence first, nudging Sherlock gently as he does so. “You’ve been doing a lot of thinking today, anything you want to share? You don’t have to!” He adds quickly. “I just thought maybe... you could use me as a sound board, like for the cases.” His voice has quickly become hesitant, trailing off the longer Sherlock remains silent.

“That,” Sherlock says eventually, “would be... nice. Though I am unclear whether or not that would be-” he pauses, searching for the correct word, “beneficial for you. Or whether my thoughts are succinct enough to express.” Sherlock swallows down the urge to brush off John’s offer in his usual unaffected manner, instead gripping tight to the proffered olive branch. He dares not look down at his companion.

“It doesn’t have to be beneficial to me, as long as you think it would help you. I often find talking about my thought out loud helps to sort them, and I know you have your mind palace for that but... I don’t know, I’m here if you need me.” John can’t help but think this is the most vulnerable he’s ever seen the detective – including the Baskerville incident. He brushes his arm against the other man’s comfortingly and Sherlock gives a sharp nod to indicate his understanding. Sherlock feels that stirring in his chest again at John’s words, and clamps down on the feelings rising to the surface.

“Noted.” He replies sharply, and the pair turn onto Northumberland street and the welcoming glow of Angelo’s. It’s as cosy as ever inside, and Sherlock feels a little of the tension drain out of him as he steps over the threshold and the burly Italian greets them with warm smile. Their usual table is occupied and so Angelo brings them round to an alcove near the kitchen, a secluded spot lit mainly by the flickering candle in the middle and glow from the kitchen window. John slides in opposite Sherlock, removing his coat and chattering pleasantly with the owner. Sherlock finds the Wine list in his hands and is picking out a bottle, offering Angelo that twitch of his lips that counts as a smile these days. Finally, finally the flatmates are alone again and Sherlock is free to study John across the table, while the other man consults the menu – Sherlock already knows what they’ll have, John is quite predictable in that sense. And somehow that thought has his lips twitching, and despite the swirling mass of thoughts in his head, they are somehow eclipsed as John raises his head and smiles back, eyes sparkling.

“Hey.” John’s voice is quiet, considerate, and Sherlock blinks back at him, lost for a moment.

“Penne Arabiata, and Linguine, yes?” His own voice startles him, as if that part of his brain is working independently of the core hub that is Sherlock’s mind. “I mean, that is our usual order, unless you want to mix things up a bit, which you don’t – creature of habit, combined with that jumper tell me most likely out will fall back on safety tonight, and go with the dish you know.” Sherlock internalises the rest of his deductions about his flatmate – girlfriend dumped him two days ago, currently facing some kind of internal struggle – could be over the breakup, unlikely though, she only lasted four days – more likely something or someone closer to him. He frowns, watch the way John’s eyes rake over him, the pinched forehead, worry in the eyes. Oh, he’s worried over Sherlock. The thought stops him for a second, John’s concern is… not unexpected, but it goes deeper than Mycroft or Lestrade usually go – mind you John is worryingly good at reading him. He’s broken out of his rapid fire thoughts by Johns reply,

“Yeah, don’t know why I bothered looking to be honest – sometimes it’s nice though.” He muses, taking the deductions in his stride as usual. The waiter arrives with the wine, and takes their order, leaving the pair in silence once more. They remain that way until Angelo himself set’s down their plates, and they’re forced to converse, thank the chef for the meal and tuck in gratefully. “Linguine still good?” John queries, noticing Sherlock is eating more than usual. The taller man hums in response, shovelling the food in and yet somehow remaining a grace and etiquette that comes of being a Holmes. Sherlock chokes suddenly, food sticking in his throat, and all of a sudden he’s scared, what if he dies because of a piece of lodged food? He coughs, heaving his lungs out until the passages clear, and then he darts to the bathroom to throw up, clinging to the basin like a lifeline. He retches and shakes, the normally calm and collected Sherlock disappears, and he’s left a quivering wreck on the bathroom floor of his favourite Italian restaurant. The bathroom door creaks open and John’s concerned face appears in the doorway, he immediately goes to his friend’s side, helping him stand and wiping away the sick trails with a paper towel. Anyone else would have questioned Sherlock, asking ridiculous things like ‘are you alright?’ when quite clearly he wasn’t, but not John, John just takes his arm and practically frog marches out of the restaurant, abandoning dinner and leaving a few notes behind to cover the cost, he bundles the detective into a taxi and Home.

The world shifts around him but he can’t focus long enough to register it, instead snapshots of everything; cab, John, steps, John, flat, John, sofa, John. John, Sherlock keeps coming back to him, always John. John in the kitchen, kettle brewing, he’s just moving about the kitchen naturally, like he belongs in there, in the flat. The image sticks. Sherlock blinks, and suddenly the lights are extinguished and the room is lit by the muted glow of the reading light beside John’s chair, and Sherlock is lying down on the sofa. He sits up slowly, time escaping him again, its unsettling, but the image of John asleep in his chair, a book half open in his hands, and a blanket over Sherlock unsettles him more. John _cared_. Cared enough to bring him home and make him tea, to throw a blanket over him when he fell asleep and watch over him into the night. Sherlock flashes back to all the times he’s awoken on the sofa, or simply emerged from the depths of his mind palace late into the night to find the afghan draped over him, or during the day a cold cup of tea by his elbow. His head reels, pain shoots through him and he blinks. Darkness cloaks the room, and Johns chair is empty, the book closed on the table beside it. Sherlock raises a hand to his head, clutching at his hair in an effort to regain a foothold in reality. Rising unsteadily to his feet Sherlock staggers up the stairs to John’s room, quietly pushing the door open to check the man is still there. The tuft of blonde hair peeking out from under the duvet confirms his presence, the tenderness that Sherlock feels at the sight confirms the thought that has been skirting around the edges of his mind the past few weeks, what has him in this stupor now. He doesn’t want to die, because of John. Because he _loves_ John. He doesn’t want to leave the man, and suddenly being reckless with his life seems stupid. John could get hurt in their endeavours, and Sherlock doesn’t want to hurt John, doesn’t want to leave. He turns and makes his way downstairs to his own bed, resolved to tell John what he thinks, what he feels, in the morning.

* * * * *

Predictably, Sherlock wakes before John, he sets the kettle to boil, and has just poured two mugs out when John comes downstairs, casting a surprised glance at the tea before shutting himself away in the bathroom. Sherlock collects the newspapers from Speedy’s and re-enters the flat to find John on the sofa sipping from his cup thoughtfully, and turning the pages of yesterday’s newspaper. Sherlock stomps across the room and throws down the Daily star in front of his flatmate, good mood dissipating.

“Boffin!” he says indignantly, “Boffin Sherlock Holmes.” John picks up the offensive article, commenting offhandly,

“Everyone gets one.”

Sherlock snatches the blasted hat from the mantle, twisting it this way and that as they converse. By the time he remembers his plan to talk to John his tea is cold, he’s staring down his microscope and trying desperately to ignore whom he can only assume is Lestrade. ‘Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.’ That’s what John had said, and he was trying, to please his flatmate, he was trying to ignore the allure of a new case by working his way through the cold cases – Henry Fisher, suicide? _Please._ When John walks over he opens his mouth to initiate a conversation, but his blogger beats him to it.

“Here.” He holds out the blasted phone and Sherlock does his best impression of disinterested, not even looking up as he declares himself too busy. “Sherlock.”

“Not _now._ ” Why was it so hard? John’s actions at conflict with his words, ‘a little case’ then handing him an invite to interesting – Lestrade only came to him with interesting these days, well mostly.

“He’s back.” The shift in tone, heavy breaths. Scared. Sherlock whips his head round to look, and dread settles in his stomach. Why couldn’t he just ignore the god dammed text?!

* * * * *

Moriarty in prison. The thought should calm Sherlock, put him at ease, but if Sherlock knows anything it’s not to trust the legal system, especially when it concerns James Moriarty. He fingers the strings of his violin thoughtfully as he mulls over the detail of the case, the evening creeping in with the setting of the sun. He’ll be called to testify in all likelihood, how tedious, and so much for a ‘little case’. Still, with his thoughts occupied so, it completely slips his mind to talk to John.

 

Six weeks later and he’s proved right, Moriarty walks. Sherlock expects the visit when it comes, feels the familiar rush with Moriarty so close, with the prospect for the consulting criminal getting bored and offing him just for the fun of it. But it’s all tempered by the crushing realisation that him being here is a threat to John. He hides how unnerved he becomes by Moriarty’s words and only when the man leaves does he drop his guard. The relief is brief though, as John comes home just minutes after Moriarty leaves. Watching John prattle around the flat, commenting angrily about the verdict and making tea, unobservant as always to the tea tray already out, Sherlock realises something; he can’t tell John what he feels. It will only put him in danger, especially if he rejects Sherlock and leaves, because then he wouldn’t be there to protect John. No, this will have to wait till the whole Moriarty thing has blown over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Ariane DeVere for her amazing transcripts, which helped immensely with ensuring the timeline and content- without being distracted by 'accidently' re-watching the entire episode.  
> This is kinda a filler leading up to the main event, also I didn't want to just rewrite the episode so it's sort of just snippets. Enjoy!  
> M xx

_Two months later_

This case, it has all the hall markings, Moriarty’s finally come out to play. His gut clenches painfully and he casts his gaze momentarily to John. John standing obliviously across the lab. Molly’s comments have hit home rather too accurately for his liking. ‘You look sad… when you think he can’t see you.’ He is sad, because he thinks he’s figured out how this game is going to end. Because he can’t tell John his big revelation about them, because John doesn’t love him, not like that. He’s been observing, sure John’s pupils dilate when the look at him, and he’s constantly reaching out to touch Sherlock – a comforting hand on his back, hand brushing on mugs of tea – but his absolute refusal that they’re anything more than platonic – ‘I’m not gay’ – the way he keeps distancing himself, keeps dating women. No, it’s plain to see, at least to Sherlock, that John does not love Sherlock the way Sherlock loves him. And then that comment. ‘I don’t count.’ Said deadpan and obvious, as if Sherlock didn’t see her as important, she was his first friend he thinks if he’s being honest with himself. She is instrumental in helping him with cases – not the same way as John, but still important. Thoughts swirl round his head as he lowers his eyes to once again peer down the microscope.

The case is solved quickly, the children found alive, but something nags at Sherlock, telling him it’s all too easy. His suspicions are confirmed when the girl, Claudette, screams at the sight of him, dread settles in his stomach. Outside he hails a cab, sliding in and telling John to get another. His musings are interrupted by an advert on the small screen in the front of the cab.

“Can you turn this off, please?” No response and now he’s irritated. “Can you turn this off ...” still nothing, and then no… it can’t be. Jim Moriarty.

“Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot.” Sherlock’s mid races as the jarring clip plays out. Donavon’s curious look earlier, her suspicions of him. Anderson too, Lestrade is the King obviously, which means… which means Moriarty’s plan to bring him down is moving into action.

* * * * *

They come for him, as he knew they would. Lestrade at least has the decency to look regretful. But there’s no time, he has to buy time, so the answer is no, despite the fact he knows they’ll just comeback, bring more officers. John is fuming, even more so when he’s actually arrested, and Sherlock can’t quite hold back the grin when John lands in cuffs beside him.

“Joining me?”

“Yeah. Apparently it’s against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent.” Definitely supress that chuckle Sherlock. He can’t help the warmth that trickles through him though, the small hope that maybe… but no, not now, don’t think about it, too much to do.  Hostage situation negotiated they run through the streets of London, tied together and exhilarated, and Sherlock wonders that perhaps there are better ways to get the rush he craves, because running with John’s hand in his is perfect, and he doesn’t want to throw it all away. But all good things must end, and when John picks up the newspaper, reads that name, something clicks into place.

The dark is all consuming, feeding into his own fears. John is quiet beside him, but the soft sound of his breathing, and the gentle pressure of his leg against Sherlock’s reassures the detective. He can’t help the smarmy retort when that blasted reporter comes home, relishing her look of surprise, before it’s gone, and he’s back to thinking, pacing, trying to sort all the pieces of the puzzle so they fit together.

“Who is Brook?” Nothing. He’s getting frustrated again, why can’t he see the bigger picture?! The lock clicks, the door opens, and Sherlock whips his head to look at the intruder, the…. Oh. Oh! It’s him, again, fear he can taste it. But the clothes are wrong, the actions, and then oh, it makes sense, and all he can do is stare at the madman as the story unfolds, the genius behind it! John is angry, scared too though trying to mask it, and Sherlock’s eyes involuntarily flicker toward his friend as John takes a step closer to Moriarty. Moriarty sees it, his understanding, and even through the mask he nods at Sherlock, smiles at him when John and Kitty can’t see, confirming the reality of the situation. He plays the part well, Sherlock has to give him that – the distressed and frightened actor – the seeds are sown now, in John’s mind too, and Sherlock’s heart sinks as the blond man looks over the ‘evidence’. And then something in him snaps, ‘Just tell him,’ Moriarty’s words ring through the small flat, and Sherlock is angry, stepping forward without thinking, shouting. Moriarty bolts. And it’s all over, because the realisation is there, what he’s always somehow known was coming but shied away from. It’s the last thing Moriarty needs to do to destroy him. He can’t tell John, but he’ll need help.

“Something I need to do.”

“What? Can I help?”

“No, on my own.” He strides away, leaving John in the dark is for his own good he decides, knowing the man won’t follow.

* * * * *

He has to tell her, not least because he needs her help. He needs someone he can trust, and he’s always trusted her. His voice almost breaks when he tells her he thinks he’s going to die, and again when he asks her if she’d still help him, even if he wasn’t, isn’t who she thinks he is. He’s fairly certain she can see the tears in his eyes but he doesn’t care, because he’s going to die, and it scares him, more than ever, knowing what he’ll be leaving behind. Friends, Mrs Hudson, John. John. He closes his eyes, files the thoughts away, and when he opens them, Molly and the plan are all he can think about.

* * * * *

John finds him, strides in whilst he bounces the ball, he shouldn’t be surprised really, John knows him better than most people, in fact probably better than everyone, except Mycroft perhaps. A quick glance and it’s obvious John figured out Moriarty’s source, paid Mycroft a visit, he sighs.

Instigating a conversation isn’t all that difficult when a puzzle has been swirling round his brain or the last few hours – the key code. John unwittingly cracks it, with all but impatient, frustrated fingers drumming on the lab top. Simple, so simple, how could you have missed that Sherlock? He’s not stupid enough to really think that a few lines of computer code could really unlock the world, but he’ll pretend, play the game and let Moriarty think he’s won, that Sherlock is ordinary, boring, and he’ll leave them alone, leave John safe. A simple text is all it takes and the plan moves into action. Across the lab John is oblivious, worry etched into his frown as he begins to pace the lab, Sherlock watches him with a heavy heart. It would all be over soon, and then John wouldn’t have to worry over him anymore. Sherlock’s chest tightens at the thought, and he settles in to wait for the inevitable.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one, but oh, the feels. Again, a massive thank you to Ariane DeVere for her transcripts. I'd also like to thank you guys for reading - you've no idea how happy it makes me to receive your comments, kudos, even just to see the Hits counter go up. so thank you.  
> All my love  
> Moomin xx

Sherlock sways slightly in the breeze, the tips of his shoes jutting out over the ledge. He feels twelve years old again, standing on the wall of the Holmes Manor. Shaking away the memory a thought occurs to him. He chuckles quietly, much to the confusion if Moriarty.

“What? What is it? What did I miss?” Each question progressively more annoyed.

“ _You’re_ not going to do it. So the killers can be called off then – there’s a recall code, or a word or a number.” Sherlock can feel something akin to relief rush through him, he might not have to do this after all. “I don’t have to die...” The events that follow happen so quickly it’s all he can do to recoil in horror at the last minute, watch the death play out before him, like a sick prequel to his own demise. The death so close, so tangible. After all the corpses he’s examined, Sherlock thinks this shouldn’t affect him so, but he’s rocked to the core. And slowly he turns back to the ledge, because while he may not want to die, he doesn’t want John to die even more. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade… what was his name? Greg! Even their deaths would shatter him, so he steps up, watches the cab approach and a familiar figure clad in a beige jumper exit. His hands have pressed the speed dial digit before his brain registers the action.

“Hello?” The sound of John’s voice, oh God what is he about to do to the man.

“John.”  Don’t let your voice break Sherlock, stay strong. No, don’t let him hear your tears.

A shaky conversation. Sherlock doesn’t bother wiping his tears away, he never did tell John, and now it was almost certainly too late, even he knew you couldn’t profess that over the phone, let alone minutes before you make the man watch your own suicide. John’s voice breaks and it undoes him. “Goodbye John.”

“No don’t” Sherlock swears he can hear it not just through the phone but from the ground, a desperate man’s plea. A sob racks the detectives frame as he hangs up, dropping the phone behind him – Mycroft’s people will find the necessary recordings, Moriarty’s confession and the like.

“NO! SHERLOCK!” Yes, always for you John. Sherlock closes his eyes, arms spread out he can almost imagine he’s twelve again, that it is the sea breeze ruffling his curls, and that big brother Mycroft will catch him before he falls. But not this time. He pitches forward. The ground hurtles towards him; he keeps his eyes closed. The impact breaks his right cheek bone, fractures his skull and dislocates his arm, and that’s with Mycroft’s protective measures. He groans softly, the only reprieve he’ll get for the pain, and then it’s into action, or rather inaction. John’s voice almost actually kills him; the desperation the brokenness. What has he done? A hand grapples at his wrist, and Sherlock would know those callouses anywhere, but the ball under his arm does its job. No pulse. They roll him over and the pain spikes, but he plays dead still, doesn’t flinch when John shatters. Sherlock can hear it in his voice.

“Jesus…No.” He’s never wanted to be dead so much, end the pain -emotional and physical – and yet he never wanted to be alive so much either, to reassure John that he’s fine (ish). As he’s wheeled away he cracks open one eye, in time to see John lean heavily against those who were restraining him, defeated. The world goes dark as Sherlock lets go, the black is a welcome relief for a broken heart.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm away from home for the next few days, and consequently without my laptop. However, I will try to keep posting but it'll be from my phone, this means there may be formatting issues - which I will endeavour to fix.  
> The other thing is this chapter is quite dark, and contains a bit of torture, and references to suicide attempts. If either of these are a trigger then I would recommend not reading. I'll post a brief summary of the chapter in the end notes for those of you who want to skip it.  
> M xx

_12 months, 6 hours later_

The whip slashes against his back causing fresh arcs of agony to roll through the suspended detective, and crimson blood to drip down his spine. The restraints chafe his bare ankles and wrists as he instinctively twists away from the weapon. His torturer barks out a harsh command in Serbian, and through the haze of pain Sherlock struggles to translate. He cries out as the whip lands in already broken skin, and some of his resolve breaks. Sherlock briefly considers letting the Serbians kill him, never has he wanted the sweet relief of death so much, his transport has failed him, and what’s worse so has his mind. He’s always been able to distance himself from the pain, and least a large part of it, but now? He cries out again. No, he can’t give in, there’s too much at stake, besides he needs to see John, just once more, know that he’s kept him safe, that it’s all worth it. This isn’t the worst you’ve been through Sherlock, come on suck it up and then you can go see John, finally tell him. The sooner you get yourself free the sooner the web will disintegrate and you can go home. The little voice, the sliver of hope is all it takes to reset his resolve, focus on the end goal, the pain doesn’t matter. He’s mulling this over, taking inventory mentally when the lashings stop abruptly, and Sherlock realises the nagging feeling in the back of his mind was the near silent approach of another person. Said person had just dispatched is attacker from the sounds of it. His bonds are cut unceremoniously and Sherlock drops to the floor in a heap, legs too weak to hold him up.

“Mr Holmes you need to get up now.” A voice muffed by layers of clothing and an accent his mind scrambles to place. “Mr Holmes!” The voice is urgent, insistent and the term at least registers enough to let him know who was rescuing him, or at least who had orchestrated his rescue, Mycroft. With a groan Sherlock pushes away the weakness of his transport and stumbles to his feet, finding a stabilising arm supporting him as the agent pulls him along. They exit the building quickly, passing unconscious (probably dead but Sherlock didn’t care enough to notice) Serbian operatives and shooting three more. When the cold winter air hits the detective he almost buckles at the knees, the wind tearing at the open and exposed wounds on his back, as well as chilling him to the bone. Once the shivering sets in he is useless to the agent, and she (height, gait, perfume – really Sherlock you’re slipping -12 minutes to notice she’s a woman?) has to drag him the last three miles through the snow and into the waiting car. The door has barely shut behind them before the vehicle is moving, accelerating away from the hellhole to a safe house. The driver cranks up the heating upon noticing the scantily clad nature of one of his passengers. Despite this the woman does not remove any layers, instead pulling out a pot of balm and smearing it across the detective’s wounds. He hisses and curses as his back begins to burn, but he hasn’t the energy or will to fight her, and so lies limp and compliant as she dresses the wounds and shoves a shirt over his head. Her hands are calloused and worn from the use of a gun, but the care she takes when attending him shows her medical background, and he wishes fervently for his own Army doctor.

* * * * *

Sherlock is unaware when he passes out, or for what length of time he sleeps – exhaustion had set in four days ago having been up for three days in their capture and two prior already, sleep wasn’t really on the agenda when you’re being tortured – but when he wakes it’s lying on his front with cool crisp sheets surrounding him. Rolling to get up sends shots of pain racing down his back but he grits his teeth and bears it, noting the bandages are still in place, although the clothes are gone. A suit is laid out on the chair across from the bed, and Sherlock dresses gingerly before leaving the room to explore what he can only assume is one of Mycroft’s safe houses. Wandering into the dining room Sherlock is startled to find his brother seated before a resplendent breakfast and reading a newspaper.

“I was wondering when you would get up.” Anyone would think Sherlock had been lazing around from Mycroft’s tone, but Sherlock could detect the trace of worry beneath it as his brother folds up the paper and studies his sibling.  _[I’m glad you’re okay.]_

“What are you doing here Mycroft?” Sherlock queries. _[Thank you for saving me.]_

“It’s’ my house, why wouldn’t I be here?” Mycroft replies with a raised eyebrow. _[You’re welcome, brother mine.]_ Sherlock scowls. That explained the niggling familiarity of the place, it was an exact replica of his English residence, and probably the French and Swiss one, hell Sherlock wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to have the same house in every country of the world (minor position my ass). “Won’t you join me for breakfast, I do believe we have things to discuss.” _[Sit. I have news on John.]_

“Pass the Jam.” Sherlock says, taking a seat opposite his brother and pulling a croissant toward him. _[Tell me everything.]_ Mycroft complies (to the jam), spreading his own breakfast with marmalade and delicately taking a bite. Sherlock practically stuffs his pastry in whole, chugging it back with a glass of orange juice. Mycroft observes, noting the hollowness in his brother’s cheeks, the way one of the man’s own tailored suits hung limply off his frame. Starved, both as part of the torture and simply his brother neglecting basic bodily needs without the nagging of his blogger. The elder Holmes sighs.

“Your presence is required at Baker Street. Our flight’s in two hours.” Sherlock’s’ whole demeanour changes, back snapping into a rigid posture that had to hurt, eyes narrowed and fixed on Mycroft intently. Something flickers across his features and then is gone, replaced by a frown.

“I can’t, there are still active strands of the web.” So much emotion rolled up in that statement, even when he tries to supress them.

“They’ll be dealt with; I have teams on them as we speak. It is imperative that you return to England.” Something is off about the way Mycroft says this, Sherlock can’t puzzle out the meaning.

“No, I have to do this myself.”

“You’re in no state to – ”

“I’ll get better. I have to do this Mycroft.” Sherlock cuts across him. Staring down the elder man and daring him to intervene, seconds tick past in silence, and finally Sherlock moves back to breakfast.

“John Watson tried to commit suicide at 7:04 yesterday morning. On the rooftop of St Bartholomew’s’ Hospital.” Mycroft’s voice is cool, cutting and yet bubbles with hidden emotion. Crockery flies through the air, smashing against the wall behind Mycroft’s head. Sherlock grabs for his empty glass, hurling that across the room too, and leaving droplets of orange juice on the once cream wallpaper. The detective hisses, rage, pain, fury, pain. 7:04, the time of Sherlock’s ‘death’, the moment he stepped off that ledge, exactly twelve months ago yesterday. Sherlock’s thoughts tumble out of control, John bleeding, dying, not knowing, all of Sherlock’s sacrifice in vain. He howls.

“He’s alive.” Mycroft’s voice once again cuts through, reminding Sherlock of that very important word in his previous statement ‘tried’ and hope begins to filter through again.

“You should have lead with this.” Sherlock hisses, striding out and making for the front door. A burly man clad in black steps in front of him before he can leave. Sherlock would’ve rolled his eyes at the cliché was he not royally pissed off and blinded by his own emotion, instead he tries to out move the guy, doge round him, and when that fails resorts to good old fashioned threats.

“If you don’t move out of my way I will dismember you slowly, and then I’ll pull out your intestines through your nose.” He growls. The man just silently raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘that the best you’ve got?’ Sherlock whirls to face his brother. “Tell him to move. I need to leave, now!” He demands.

“Information Sherlock, you need information. The jet isn’t ready yet.” Mycroft states calmly, and Sherlock hates that he’s right, that he’s allowed emotions to cloud his judgement, his logic. Reluctantly he allows himself to be lead back into the kitchen, and Mycroft hands him a file, John’s file. Sherlock skims through it, horrified with every word he reads, ever picture that details John’s life whilst he has been gone.

“John, no, no, no. John. JOHN. John.” He barely registers the chant that he’s started up, emphasising a different part of his beloved’s name with every breath. Hollow cheeks, dead eyes. Staring out at him from black and white surveillance photographs.

_‘Subject hasn’t eaten in 32 hours, action required.’_

_‘Request granted.’_

_‘Subject did not resist force feeding.’_

Sherlock swallows down bile, and flicks onwards.

_‘Subject more responsive, resumed contact with Detective inspector Lestrade, possible improvements imminent.’ ‘Retract earlier statement. Subject unresponsive, cuts to wrists non-fatal, suggest medical attention – hospitalisation, subject malnourished and possibly suicidal. Contact with DI seems non-beneficial. Request more action.’_

_‘Subject to be moved to secure facility.’_

_‘Subject refused, three injured. Contact lost with subject. Suggest bring in Doctor Hooper, scale back interference to surveillance. Subject acting worse for intervention.’_

_‘Request denied.’_

Sherlock scans through the remaining reports quickly, they’re becoming less frequent, as if John was slowly reintegrating himself into society.

_‘Subject regaining independence, contacted clinic, starts back at work on Monday.’_

_‘Surveillance only, interfere only if threat to life of Subject.’_

 

He moves quicker through the file until he stumbles across the penultimate entry.

_‘Subject went on a date, ended amicably, no follow up date set. Subject returned to residence and stared drinking. Went to bed at 01:00 hours. Was not drunk. No indication slipping.’_

_‘Do not interfere.’_

 

Finally:

_‘Subject woke at 05:00 hours. Entered second bedroom for twelve minutes. Dressed and left residence, destination unknown.’_

_‘Arrived at Barnes Old Cemetery 24 mins later (light traffic caused 6 min delay) – 05:48’_

_‘Twenty-eight minutes spent at grave of ‘Sherlock Holmes’ oddly preoccupied with surrounding land. Left graveyard at 06:20, destination unknown.’_

_‘Arrived St Bartholomew’s Hospital 06:56 (8 min traffic delay) possible intervention required. Subject looks unstable.’_

_‘Request granted. Intervene if necessary.’_

_’07:02 Subject exited St Bartholomew’s Hospital onto roof, stepped onto ledge. Intervention required, action to be taken.’_

_‘Report.’ …… ‘Report’ …._

_’07:04 Subject attempted to take his own life, stepped off ledge. Action taken. Request replacement parachute. Subject subdued. Request replacement anaesthetic. Subject removed to secure facility. Next course of action?’_

_‘Subject to be moved into residence, keep him sedated. Requests granted.’_

Sherlock shoves the file away from him, barely making it to the bathroom before he throws up, emptying the meagre contents of his stomach into the porcelain. His head spinning, Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and staggers back into the kitchen. Mycroft remains calm at the table.

“Your information isn’t helping.” Sherlock hisses at his brother.

“Sentiment –” Mycroft starts but Sherlock cuts across him.

“Yes, sentiment. Now tell me what I actually need to know. Where are you holding John?”

Mycroft scrutinises his brother, disgusted and in awe despite himself. Sherlock cares. Sherlock cares about John and so he is hurting, but he wants to help, has sacrificed so much because he cares. And John, John cares about Sherlock, and is willing to throw away his life in some crazy notion of joining his friend, perhaps in an ill-conceived notion of an afterlife? Sentiment has never come easy to the Holmes brothers, and Mycroft in particular had learned to dissociate himself from it, but he can’t help but marvel at the idea of caring so much for one person. Although as these two have proven, it is their greatest flaw, greatest weakness and can be exploited by anyone, even themselves. Mycroft muses for a mere moment before giving his brother the truth, after all, he can’t stand to see Sherlock hurting, and this is making the hurt shine in his brother’s eyes like nothing else – not even losing Redbeard. The answer to Sherlock’s question is simple – because really, where else would he take John? Where else would he be safe and protected and looked after and loved?

“Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in a nutshell:  
> 12 months after Reichenbech Sherlock is called back by Mycroft because John attempted to commit suicide.


	9. Chapter 9

The jet has barely touched down before Sherlock is moving, scrambling out of the confounded vehicle and onto the private runway a few miles from the Holmes estate. If he could, he’d run the last stretch, anything to get to John. But his back complains with every step, and legs weak from malnutrition remind him that collapsing en route would only slow him down. Instead he bundles into the customary black car and waits impatiently for Mycroft to join him. The car ride is tense, Sherlock unable to keep still he drums his fingers across his knees, taps his foot on the floor, flips his phone in the air. Anything to keep him mildly busy, anything which apparently irritates his brother. As the car finally sweeps up the drive Sherlock stills. The manor was always breath-taking, just as it has always been intimidating, but Sherlock squashes down memories of his teenage years and forces himself only to focus on one thing; finding John.

* * * * *

"John." The word slips from his mouth before he can stop it, as if it’s the only word he knows. The blond in question lies still on a narrow bed, an IV snakes its way into his hand, and a heart monitor beeps obnoxiously to the left. Sherlock's eyes rake over the sleeping form, cataloguing every bruise and scrape, the new lines around his eyes and what they mean - tired, stressed, doesn't smile as much as he used to. Sherlock's chest constricts uncomfortably, and he crosses the room to sit in the chair beside the bed. John stirs as Sherlock takes his hand, eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids before slowly blinking open. His gaze lands on Sherlock and widens, darting down to their joined hands. He jerks backwards, and Sherlock relinquishes his hold reluctantly.

"John."

"No!" John shakes his head. "No, you're not here. You are _dead_." He's gasping in breaths now and the heart monitor wails an erratic heartbeat. Snarling Sherlock yanks the power from it leaving the room in thick silence punctuated only by their breathing.

"I'm sorry John. Truly I am." Sherlock's voice is as soft as John has ever heard it. The detective reaches out and brushes his hand against John's. "I'm real, and alive. And more sorry than you can conceive." He hangs his head a little at the admission. John is still trying to grasp the reality of the situation, and settles on anger as the beat response.

"You bastard! I can't believe it. No, scratch that, I can. It's so very Sherlock Holmes to think that faking your death and leaving your friends to grieve you is a good idea. You utter git, all this time. And you didn't think to leave me a note, 'by the way John I'm not really dead, just thought I'd fake it for shits and giggles'. Nothing for a whole year, and all this time I..." He swallows thickly. "I grieved for you Sherlock. I punished myself, couldn't move on. Christ. I tried to kill myself because of you. And you just come swanning back in and expect everything to pick right off where you left do you? Well newsflash Sherlock, that isn't going to happen. God, I can't look at you right now." He turns away, eyes alighting on the figure in the doorway and clouding over again with distaste. "Mycroft."

"Get. Out." Sherlock grits out, glaring at his brother.

"You knew, didn't you. Of course you knew." John exclaims, glaring at the older Holmes. "All those times you came to the flat, talked to me, you knew he was alive, and let me go on believing the lie, let me self-destruct." His lips curl in disgust. "Let it be known the Holmes brothers know how to royally screw over a person, betray their trust and then block their exit."

"John -"

"Shut up! Just shut up Sherlock. I think you've done enough harm already don't you? Leave me to my humiliation, for you have well and truly made a fool out of me Sherlock Holmes."

"John Hamish Watson." Sherlock persists. "I. Am. Sorry." Such feeling forced into three words. Mycroft slips away unnoticed. "I had no reasoning to suggest your reaction would be this profound. And even if I had, my actions would have been the same. John, I faked my death, yes, but I did it to protect _you_." Sherlock searches Johns face for a reaction.

"No reasoning to suggest..." He mouths, perplexed. "You're my best friend, of course I would grieve for you." And then he latches on to the last sentence, "to protect me." He toys with the idea in his head, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Three snipers. You, Mrs Hudson, Lestr - Greg." He elaborates, catching himself on Lestrade's name and using the man's first name as a sort of proof that he did know, that he cared. That he was telling the truth.

"Snipers... Greg... Mrs Hudson." John echo's.

"You know I abhor repetition John." And somehow that makes the man quirk a smile, however short lived. The man’s face creases into a frown again all too quickly.

"Sherlock, have you any idea what your death did to me? What I've done? What I tried to do?"

"Yes." The word gets mangled somewhere, coming out strained and desperate. "John." That name is his lifeline. This man is his life. John relaxes suddenly, defeated. Sherlock's mind flits to the file, the damages John has done to himself, that Sherlock has done to him. He needs to see. "Show me, please." Sherlock takes John's wrist in his hands, gently turning it over unto he can see the underside, the pale white lines that mar John's skin. He recoils, seeing those marks, evidence of Sherlock's effect on John, and something else, something.... He falls off the bed as an influx of data swamps his mind. The floodgates have opened. The long awaited, searched for memories have been found. But they're too much. The memories. The data. The _emotion_. Hands fisted in his hair, twisting pulling. Get them out! Eyes pressed closed he rocks back and forth. "Too much. Too much." He mumbles to himself. John, startled by the change in his friend, scrambles off the bed, ripping out the IV needle and tearing at the pads on his chest. Falling to the floor beside the lanky detective, John soothes away the hands knotted in inky curls, holding them between his own and whispering softly. Sherlock continues to rock, hands straining against John's grip and eyes fluttering under their lids. The blond, at a loss, encircles Sherlock in a hug, pulling the curled up form against his chest and rocking with him, burying his nose in his ex-flatmate's hair and drinking in the feel, the smell of the man. The door bursts open and black clad figures pour into the room, only to find the bed empty. Then hands, everywhere, on John, on Sherlock. Pulling them apart. John struggles desperately as Sherlock is torn from his embrace.

"Sherlock!" The detective doesn't reply, limply being scooped up by Mycroft's men. Johns fight becomes frantic, landing an elbow correctly earns him enough slack to lunge for his friend. But then the hands are there, holding him back. Pinning him down and sedating him. The whole time John keeps his head turned towards Sherlock, to the empty doorway. As the sedative takes effect his words slur.

"Sssher...sirlock... Slock...ssssh." He's pulled under, into the blackness of sleep, and the hands finally let him go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, seriously, this chapter is quite dark, and includes explicit references/a description of someone attempting to commit suicide. If this is a trigger, do not read this.   
> On a slightly happier note, I fixed the formatting for chapter 8, and am back with my laptop!  
> Hopefully this chapter won't be too painful to read.  
> Enjoy!  
> M xx

Sherlock doesn't struggle when they take him, already far into the recesses of his mind. He's slipped away long before the sedative enters his bloodstream.

Too much data, unorganised, uncontrolled data, flooding his mind. It seeps through the walls, leaves memories scattered on the floor, piled atop one another. All in a constant assault of colour and noise.

STOP!

The information slows. You have to sort through it. Logically. His brain supplies, but it’s all he can do to stay standing in this room. A memory hits him, square in the chest, and he's pulled back in time.

_A baby faced three-year-old Sherlock sits on the floor of the manor sitting room, papers spread all around him. In one chubby fist he holds a green crayon, the other is shoved in his mouth, sucking on his first two fingers as he doodles. A ten-year old Mycroft runs into the room, advancing on Sherlock with a look crossed between anger and despair._

_"You've ruined my homework William! No! Stop!" He tears the sheets away from the three-year old, causing the child's bottom lip to quiver. Oblivious Mycroft inspects the damage, wailing once more when he sees the state of his once pristine maths sheets. A tear trickles down William's cheek, and he sniffles, drawing the attention of Mycroft, who looks on with a frown, and a concerned glance over his shoulder. Mummy was ill, and not to be disturbed, father was away, which just left Mycroft to take care of his brother. The nannie being asleep in the kitchen over a bottle of the manor's scotch._

_"Don't cry." Mycroft orders, fetching two fresh sheets of paper and setting them down, one in front of each of them. "I'll teach you numbers while I redo my maths." He says with a sigh, and watches his brother pick up a new crayon, purple this time._

_"We'll start with one..."_

The scene shifts and changes, colours merging and reforming around the dazed figure of present day Sherlock.

_The sunlight filters through the branches of the oak tree, leaving patches of shade and light alternate on the grass. An eight-year old in tatty clothes and brandishing a sword charges about, an Irish red setter hot on his heels._

_"Avast, Redbeard. They have stolen the treasure! We must get it back from those scurvy, yellow livered dogs." He shouts. "Up the tower we go." And the boy scrambles up the tree leaving the dog to bark at him from its base. Sitting on a branch he scans the horizon, looking at an imagined coastline. He swings the sword to and fro in front of him, fighting an unseen enemy. And then._

_"Mummy!" He yells, losing his balance and tumbling down, down onto the grass, where his arm twists under him. The dog barks furiously, licking its masters face once before rushing off to meet a dark haired woman at the back door as she runs to her son._

_"William!" Motherly concern, fear, love, all rolled into one as the eight-year old cries in pain, staring at the white of the bone protruding from his arm._

_When the paramedics arrive, barrelling through the house and into the garden, William can't help but deduce them, it's the only thing to distract him from passing out, and mummy said not to fall asleep._

_"Your wife is sick. You should help her, not me, be with her. And your daughter, wants a cat. Adopted one while you weren't around. Hiding it in her closet." He blinks heavily, watching for the man’s reaction. To his surprise the man smiles, if a little grimly._

_"I can't help my wife, she's being looked after by lots of special people, people who can do more than me. But I can help you, young man. So I intend to do so. Let me see that arm of yours will you sport." William lets himself be manhandled, crying out in pain as his arm is moved. "Hey it's okay. You're being really brave." The paramedic praises. "As for the cat, it's in the linen closet actually. And I do know about it, she just doesn't realise it yet. Though I am intrigued as to how you guessed all that." He says conversationally, trying to keep the boy talking._

_"Didn't guess, saw, deduced." William replies sleepily, the painkiller injected into him beginning to take effect and strip away the pain so only an overwhelming desire to sleep prevailed._

_"Did you hit your head, son?" The nice man asks, and William yawns a yes, not noticing the concerned looks the paramedics share._

The memory blurs, streaks of information brushing past Sherlock, leaving behind impressions in his conscious, memories. The scene shifts, becoming shorter snapshots of Sherlock's life.

_"Freak!" A thick set boy scorns, shoving a familiar curly haired child to the ground._

_"Nobody likes you." Another jeers._

_Rimmed spectacles snapped in half._

_Laughing faces as books are torn from his grip._

_"Freak"_

_The last heaving breath of a faithful red setter, the best first mate a boy could wish for. And the sobs of a child as his best friend leaves him._

_"Fag"_

_"Why don't you just kill yourself?"_

_"Freak"_

_“Freak"_

_"Freak!"_

Sherlock screams, the sound echoing in his head, the taunts, gestures all so familiar, coming at every angle. He fists his hands in his hair, tugging roughly as if to pull the memories out, but he's inside his own mind, and they are all around.

"STOP!"

Abruptly the images freeze, dripping away until only one remains. Sherlock gets a panoramic view, surround sound, and he watches with new found agony.

_The bathroom is spacious, like all of the manor, sparkling white tiles, large mirror set on one wall. A heap of eleven-year old boy sits on the cool porcelain floor, head bowed over his arms. In one hand a small blade reflects the sharp clinical lights. The boy stares at the blade for a moment, eyes flickering to the locked door for reassurance, before he lowers it deftly to one wrist. Too pale skin blooms red as he tracks the blade south, along the artery for maximum damage. He switches hands and starts a fresh cut, hand shaking from the pain and the sobs which rack his small frame. The blade clatters to the floor, a red smear left behind on the tiles. A curly haired head follows, as the boy, child really, collapses in an ever growing pool of his own blood._

Sherlock jerks awake, the images, memories his mind reminds him, seared into his mind palace. How could he have forgotten? A child's pain, taunted, made fun of, all leading to despair on the bathroom floor. He swallows down a sob, evaluating the facts, the timeline wasn't complete. A patch of time still missing. It isn't until the room shifts, colours merging and twisting, that Sherlock realises he's still trapped in the depths of his palace. No one hears him scream _._

_"Ah good you're awake, William." The looming face causes the child to lash out, more so than the sharp metal table and restraints. He jerks forward, determined to stop the noise, finding little movement possible he slams his head back, hitting the table with enough force to render himself unconscious._

_"Sherlock, you must learn to control these impulses of yours." The man, from before sits in a chair across the room, pristine lab coat, legs crossed and a clipboard leaning against his corduroy trousers. Deductions fly out of Sherlock's mouth._

_"42, second marriage, grown children, affair. Well paid, private doctor. Nordic origins. At least four years spent in eastern Europe - Hungary, and Poland? Bagel for breakfast? Lunch?" He glances around trying to place the time of day and falling frustratingly short, with the lack of windows or other defining features. What he does discover is he's sitting up, unrestrained, and in a stark white room. The door is just behind the doctor, increasing the difficulty of escape, and is reinforced with magnetic locks - conclusion he's in a facility, in all likelihood a psychiatric hospital. The doctor sighs._

_"Must we go through all this every time? At least you're back with us, tell me, where do you go in that big old brain of yours?"_

_Confused Sherlock shuffles in his chair, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. His memory is patchy, and the Sherlock in the chair is having difficulty placing why he is here. Itchy wrists draw his attention to them, and the angry red lines marching up his veins. He stares at them in shock, eyes flickering up to the doctor to confirm that yes, he really did make them. Something in his expression pleases the doctor and he jots down some notes, smiling unnervingly._

_"This is progress Sherlock. We're putting this all behind us and moving forward."_

_Sherlock blinks, reading the notes on the page upside-down, even in the messy shorthand of a doctor Sherlock can decipher pieces. 'Responding well to name distancing. ECT beginning to take effect. Memory loss profound.' Sherlock blinks slowly, jerking at the prick of a needle in the crook of his arm. He hadn't even noticed the orderly come in, and now he slips under with the pull of the sedative._

There’s more. They made him forget it all, rebuilt him and then made him forget his past. The doctors, the rooms, it’s the cottage. He was right all those years ago, they were monsters in disguise, and mummy was certainly not having a relaxing break from it all. It makes sense though, his reaction as a fourteen-year old upon visiting the cottage. The place where they broke him. Or not. Did they not just take the already broken pieces and fuse them together, a patchwork person with no memory of the pain, the damage? His mind reels. No. the needles, the electric therapy, all the pain he went through at the cottage. They took fractured pieces of a child and tore them to shreds until they could be refitted together into something new. Something that complied with his Father’s wishes. Wouldn’t damage the prestigious name of the Holmes. Well bad news for you, father. They made me into what I am, which means they planted the seeds for the drugs, the danger, the craving for death. It was their fault he was defective, that he dragged an established name through the mud with his Cocaine and his ‘catching criminals? Really Sherlock, something so _ordinary?_ How very pedestrian of you.’

Fighting his way past the data, the memories, Sherlock becomes aware of his surroundings, of his aching back. He blinks a few times to clear his vision and check that he is, in fact awake, before rolling onto his feet and staggering out the room and down the hall. John is still unconscious on the bed, his breathing slow and regular, looking so perfectly ordinary that it makes Sherlock’s chest constrict. Somehow just the sight of John, safe and so close, calms the detective. Without really processing it, Sherlock climbs onto the bed, fitting himself around John's sleeping form. He presses his face into the other man's neck and lets himself drift into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it?   
> I feel the need to clarify the whole William/Sherlock thing, in case it wasn't clear. Before the suicide attempt he was called William by everyone and things. Afterwards in order to distance him from the memories and experiences the doctors sort of renamed him with his middle name; Sherlock, and that's why (in this) he uses the name Sherlock, but in the memory version I've referred to him as William, as do other characters.  
> Sorry for the long notes, I'll let you get on with your lives now.  
> Moomin xx


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock.... Sherlock." The detective wakes to the insistent voice of his blogger. The man's breath tickles his ear and makes him burrow his head deeper into John's neck. Said man sighs, causing more air to rush past Sherlock's ear, to which his response is,

"John, stop breathing." John snorts a laugh at that, and Sherlock, admitting defeat, unburies his head, if only to glare at his friend.

"I tried that, but someone's meddling older brother stopped me." It's said deadpan and the bluntness takes Sherlock aback. He stares at John for a second, trying to work out what to say. "I'm kind of glad he did, looking back on it, otherwise I wouldn't know you were alive." A wry smile graces John's face. "Make no mistake, I'm going to wallop you just as soon as I'm allowed to move, but I'm glad you're alive, you tit." 

"Quite." Sherlock replies with a sniff, trying (and failing) to look unaffected. John punches him lightly in the arm.

"So, are you going to explain why you're wrapped around me? Or what yesterday was about? Also, tell Mycroft to stop sedating me, I'm not going to do anything rash. Besides, knocking me put for leaving the bed to try and stop you tearing your hair out, literally, seems a bit inane."

Sherlock frowns. "They sedated you?" When John nods, his frown deepens. "I suppose they sedated me as well. That would explain why I couldn't wake up."

"Nightmare?" John queries concerned.

"Trapped in my Mind Palace actually. Seeing your... injuries, triggered a release of memories. Memories which had previously been repressed." Sherlock pauses. Divulging these personal details is something Sherlock would never normally do, but to John, to John it doesn't seem so bad. It might help him understand Sherlock better, and besides, when John asked, he wanted to know, he wasn't just making conversation.

"You don't have to -"

"You have to understand John, before today I had no recollection of anything before the summer when I was twelve. For someone with an eidetic memory, having absolutely no memory of any time before a specific day is rather odd. I have tried for years to unlock those memories, find them in the depths of my Mind Palace, but I couldn't.

"Yesterday, I regained my memories in one hit of uncontrollable data."

"Too much." John says quietly, quoting Sherlock from the evening before. Sherlock nods, gaze fixed away from his flatmate - unable to look John in the eye.

"Let's just say a lot of them weren't particularly pleasant." He closes his eyes and then all in a rush blurts out, "I tried to kill myself when I was eleven." The silence is thick, and prompts Sherlock to elaborate. "I was bullied at school from a young age, I was too intelligent, didn't know when to stop."

"Still don't." John breathes, for some reason this causes the detective to quirk his lips in a half-hearted smile.

"It got worse as the year’s progresses and the children became crueller. When Redbeard, my dog, died there just wasn't anything to hold on for. Mycroft was away at University by the time he was 15, boarding school before that, so I spent much of my childhood with only Redbeard to play with, comfort me. Anyway, everything seemed hopeless, and I guess, well, I didn't see the point in living.

"I slit my wrists in one of the manor bathrooms. Up the artery for maximum damage - I did my research as always." A ghost of a smile hovers across his mouth - always do you research, know your stuff.

"It didn't matter. Someone must have found me in time. I don't remember my time in hospital if I actually spent any time there. With father the way he was I somehow doubt it. Wouldn't want to tarnish the Holmes' family name." Sherlock's tone is nothing but scorn. Throughout the tale he's slowly been pulling away from John, unable to stand the contact - why would John want him like this anyway - now John wraps his arms around the detective, encircling him in protective arms.

"Oh Sherlock." Johns soft exhalation against his neck undoes the emotionally repressed detective. He collapses into the arms, burying himself in John's scent, his comfort. And if a single tear tracks down his face, well that's between Sherlock and John's jumper.

"They broke me John, the doctors I was sent to afterwards. Holmes cottage in the Swiss alps, psychiatric facility. They took my broken pieces and shattered them into dust, until I could be made into someone new. And it hurt.

"But I can't hate them, they made me who I am, gave me crime, and sibling rivalry, gave me back a life. A life I never _wanted_. But a life with you in it, and I can't hate them for that." John closes his eyes; he's trembling with barely contained rage.

"Sherlock." His voice is strangled and thin. "No. No. You should never have got to that stage, where suicide seemed the only option, and at eleven, Christ." He reins himself back in with a deep breath. "You are brilliant, and talented, kind to those who matter, steadfastly loyal and selfless - you just gave up a year of your life to keep me safe for heaven’s sake. And if those children who hurt you didn't see it, those doctors who tried to change you, then it is their loss not yours. For they will never know what it is like to have your affection, loyalty, genius, turned to them. You might not feel like you can hate those _doctors_ , but I can, and I will. If I ever meet them..." Sharp inhalation. "Well, I can't imagine it'll be very pleasant being them." Then softer, almost under his breath. "Sherlock, I care for you very much. I wouldn't want a world without you in it - as I think I've proven."

He exhales softly, and Sherlock takes in the statement John has just made. Now? Was now the time to tell his flatmate how he felt? After those words it could go one of two ways - one, John would reject the statement and they'd be left in an uncomfortable position of John wanting to comfort him in his weakness, but not lead him on; two, John would reciprocate and they'd have to move forward in a relationship, would they kiss? Or, and Sherlock has to concede there may be a third option, John might not actually reciprocate, but feel due to Sherlock's vulnerable state, he ought to tell him what he wanted to hear, thus replying in kind and initiating a relation he didn't want. Sherlock rolled the options round in his head, calculating likelihoods and coming up frustratingly short. Prior to the fall John had exhibited some classic signs of attraction (attraction being the key word, attraction not romantic interest, as one can be attracted to someone they have no desire to engage physically with. Indeed, to Sherlock's mind at least, John could have been aroused and still not want to love Sherlock, or to actively partake in sexual acts with him.) elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, when Sherlock was near - though that could have been attributed to the high-strung cases and adrenaline rush associated with - an additional deep concern for Sherlock's wellbeing. However, the multiple denied comments about them being a couple, and the insistent "I'm not gay" lent itself very obviously to the conclusion the John didn't like Sherlock in that way. Then again, evaluating new data from today, John was not disgusted by Sherlock sleeping next to him, nor was he reluctant to hug and comfort him. And lastly, that comment, John's tone, his body language let alone the content - I care for you very much. Sherlock's mind whirled. What did he have to lose? John. He could lose John. Except, hadn't he already proved he'd forgive Sherlock faking his death? Would telling him how he felt really drive him away? Besides, he might be able to pass it off as a side effect of his emotional instability at this time - however he hated to look weak, this time it might work in his favour.

"John." Solid start Sherlock, now what? "John, I-" words. How could words prove so difficult?

"Idiot." John says with a smirk before dipping his head and pressing his lips against Sherlock's. Surprised Sherlock doesn't have time to react before John is pulling back, a silly smile stretched across his face. Sherlock blinks once, then moves forward, chasing John's lips. The kiss is just as chaste as the first, sweet and perfect.

"How did you -"

"Hush." John replies, recapturing plush lips in his own and running a teasing tongue across Sherlock's mouth. It parts in surprise and John takes this as permission to deepen the kiss, tongue darting in to taste Sherlock. Someone moans though neither can tell whom. They pull apart gasping for air, and Sherlock can't help the admission that comes tumbling out.

"I love you." His eyes widen at his own words and he watches John closely.

"I should hope so, else that would have been awkward." Is John's cheeky reply. He grins at Sherlock's expression. "You were mouthing 'love' for like a minute before, while you thought. It was somewhat obvious your train of thought, add to that a load of other pointers and I came up with an answer that fit the facts."

"Excellent deductive reasoning John." Sherlock slips back into his comfortable unflappability. "The question however is, do you...reciprocate?"

"Can't you deduce it?" John asks with a raised eyebrow.

"The situation didn't present a satisfactory amount of data towards one conclusion. The most recent data however does suggest some correlation with a likely answer." Sherlock hedges. John laughs.

"Only you could make asking someone whether they loved them sound so clinical and dull." Sherlock swallows and John puts him out of his misery. "Of course I reciprocate, you twat." He hits Sherlock lightly on the arm. Sherlock frowns, and John rolls his eyes. Leaning in so his mouth is against Sherlock's ear he whispers. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock makes a strangles noise in his throat and turns his head to capture Johns lips in his own once more.

"Oh good. My hypothesis was correct."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock grins against John's mouth and lets himself sink into the kiss, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you have a choice now. Apart from a sort of epilogue, this is the end of what I've written. Having got to this point I didn't know whether to carry on because it feels kind of end-like, but at the same time there are things which are unresolved - Sherlock's return, how they deal with things, especially Sherlock's fascination with death (does he tell John?) etc. I have a couple of ideas for scenes, but at the same time I don't want to drag it out more than necessary. Either way, it's up to you guys - do you want me to write more or leave it as is? If I continue, be aware that it means the updates will become less frequent, as I'll need to find the time to write.   
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed reading so far, and don't think I've butchered the characters too much (Sherlock does appear quite weak emotionally here). At any rate, I'll wait a couple of days and if no-one says either way (or the majority don't want more) I'll post the existing epilogue.  
> Thanks guys!  
> Moomin xx


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I decided to go ahead and upload the epilogue.   
> Thank you so much for reading.  
> M xx

John Watson is undeniably Sherlock Holmes’ best friend.  The fact he has more than one friend often startles Sherlock as much as the concept that he has any friends at all. The fact that someone brave and charming and good would want to be his friend, colleague,  _ lover _ ,  startles him every morning when he wakes up next to the man, and every morning in which he doesn’t because he’s forgotten to go to bed, or simply not deigned to sleep at all. It’s safe to say that no one man has ever confused Sherlock as much as John Watson. Has ever proved so problematic, and unmoving, so dangerous and so caring all wrapped up in one ordinary man who likes beige jumpers and afternoon tea as much as running through the streets of London with a gun in his hand and a criminal up ahead. It is also true that Sherlock has given up many things for his blogger – the closest he allowed himself to death  these days  was the undeterminable chance that a criminal might kill him while he tracked them, no longer did he toy with weapons and harmful chemical (okay so maybe the chemicals bit was a lie, but he only used them when John was in the flat, and with all the correct protective equipment he was lax about before) baiting death and hoping to come away scot free. It was all  worth it though, for what John gave him -companionship, love, someone to share an adrenaline rush with (because if that was as close as he was going to get to death then he damned well was going to enjoy it). Sure John’s gun proves a constant challenge – because the ache never goes away, no matter how hard he tries, or what memories he relieves – but just like the blades he’s been accustomed to since he was 7 ¾ (Mycroft, your memory's slipping if you really believe he was eight the first time he picked up a sword) he grows accustomed to the gun’s magnetism, distances himself as best he can, because in the end, Sherlock wouldn’t trade John to be rid of it, and he wouldn’t want a John without it because the man feels vulnerable without it (silly notion John, I’ll always protect you) and  it and John have saved Sherlock’s life more time than he can count. Ultimately, John is the best distraction, the best man, the best friend, Sherlock has ever had. He has his experiments, the Work, but most importantly he has John. 

And that makes all the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Hope you've enjoyed the read, and that the epilogue wasnt too dissapointing after the wait. I wanted it to mirror the beggining, but better - also it doesn't really wrap anything up precisly so I can always come back and add more to this story! For now there are no set in stone plans to do that, but I am working on some other fics so I'll probably upload something new soon.  
> Moomin xx


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